


Are You Listening to Little Mix?

by Mitchellsfingerlessgloves



Category: Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Music, Non music snobbery, Pre-Slash, Punk bands, little mix - Freeform, punk! Bucky Barnes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-15
Updated: 2015-11-15
Packaged: 2018-05-01 19:15:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5217590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mitchellsfingerlessgloves/pseuds/Mitchellsfingerlessgloves
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky Barnes, punk extraordinaire, sometimes finds himself listening to his fair amount of Top Forty.</p><p>Steve Rogers, as it turns out, does as well.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Are You Listening to Little Mix?

The Cure. Joy Division. The Smashing Pumpkins.

Bucky found, as he shifted in his seat on the crowded bus, that he didn't particularly want to listen to any of the music that usually satisfied him on his journey to work.

No matter which way he listened to his music (be it on shuffle, or else playing a whole album through) nothing was quite meeting his needs. 

He felt bad with each song he skipped, feeling as though the artists were somehow watching him skip their music and renouncing him as a fan, but he just couldn't sit through anymore thrashing guitars and harping cymbals.

As he shifted once more, his knee bumped the man's next to him and, without looking up (or taking off his headphones) he uttered a quiet apology. He saw the man's jaw move and assumed that he had been forgiven, and so continued scrolling through his music.

As yet another The Cure song started to play, Bucky closed his eyes and began pressing the 'next' button repeatedly, not allowing more than a second of music before deciding to play the next song.

The Clash. Sex Pistols. Bad Religion. And then...

"Mm hm."

"Mm hm."

Bucky's eyes flew open and he glanced down at the screen of his iPod, which clearly displayed the image of four pretty, young woman against a green screen sunset. 

He simply stared at the image for a few seconds, letting the first verse of the song begin to flow into his ears.

Then, he turned it down so the volume was only halfway up and locked his iPod hurriedly. 

The thing was, he was proud to say that he wasn't a music snob. He'd listen to whatever, as long as he liked the sound of it. While he fell into the punk niche quite nicely, he'd listen to anything from Sex Pistols to Tchaikovsky. And, apparently, Little Mix.

He'd had many a civilised discussion with Clint and Natasha about how no one can be defined by a genre and leave him to listen to his generic pop, thanks very much. However, he couldn't deny that being a twenty four year old man in a Joy Division tank top with three cartilage piercings listening to Little Mix would somewhat hurt his street cred.

He couldn't help, however, mouthing along to the words he had learnt perfectly from dance sessions in his bedroom late a night, tapping his foot to the beat of the up tempo song.

He looked out of the window (and saw exactly what the streets in Brooklyn always displayed on a Tuesday morning) and then he turned to his right, to see the man who was sitting beside him staring at the black screen of Bucky's iPod with a look of both confusion and amusement on his face.

Finally, Bucky slipped off his headphones and turned the music lower by a few ticks so it couldn't be heard above the general chatter on the bus.

"What?" Bucky said, snapping more than he meant to.

The man (a blond, thick man who Bucky too late realised was exceedingly attractive) shook his head and offered a sheepish smile. 

"Sorry. I, um, couldn't help but notice... Are you listening to Little Mix?"

Bucky felt his cheeks heat up immediately. He turned his battered iPod over in his hand a few times before nodding slowly. He placed the device carefully on his knee and reached up to tug on his hair- tied in a small bun courtesy of Natasha.

"Yeah, I am," Bucky said, looking directly into the blond's eyes and instantly wishing he hadn't when he fixed him with a wide-eyed, cheerful gaze.

"Cool," the blond nodded, drumming his fingers on his thigh. "I prefer the classics myself. Girls Aloud, Spice Girls. Atomic Kitten."

Bucky couldn't help but let out a bark of laughter, catching his iPod as it slipped off his leg.

"What?" The blond asked, clasping a hand to his chest in mock outrage. 

Bucky shook his head, still smiling. "Nothing, nothing. It's just rare to meet someone with such impeccable music taste."

The blond grinned, and Bucky's own smile widened.

"Well, thank you," the man said. "None of my friends appreciate such art."

Bucky agreed with the testament and, without consideration, launched into the story of his discover of the English girl group.

The blond listened and appeared actually interested in Bucky's misadventures with MTV, then responding in kind with stories involving one 'Sam' losing the remote and leaving the television on a channel that only played 'women of the noughties' twenty four hours a day. Steve had pretended to feel just as distasteful towards the music as his friend, bus as soon as the other man had gone out sat with rapt attention, enjoying the thrumming guitars and syncopated drums.

The two of them had discussed their favourite all-girl groups for another quarter of an hour, before the bus pulled up to the stop whee Steve announced, desolate look on his face, that, "This is my stop." He scratched at the back of his neck as he started to rise from his seat, looking directly into Bucky's eyes.

"Mine too!" Bucky blurted. There were, in fact, another five stops until Bucky reached his stop, but he found himself enthralled with his new friend (with an unwarranted amount of attraction) and he wanted to talk to him for at least another few minutes (and maybe get his number).

"Oh?" The blond's face split into a wide smile and the two men fought their way out of the still brimming bus onto the less stifled pavement.

"Um, so-" Bucky started.

"Steve," the blond stated, holding out his right hand out to be shaken.

Bucky grinned. "Bucky."

If Steve thought his nickname was odd, he didn't say it, instead smiling and nodding.

"Well, it's been great talking to you about 'real' music, but I've really got to get to work, so, um-"

"Yeah," Bucky nodded, raising his left arm (gloved even in the hot weather) to shift his bag back onto his shoulder.

"Can I have your number?" Steve mumbled, looking down at his feet, cheeks turning red. Bucky looked directly at his muscular arms and found himself nodding.

"Sure." 

Steve's head instantly jerked back up and, once more, he grinned, digging into his pocket to retrieve his phone.

Bucky too pulled out his phone and went to the Contacts tab and opened up a new one.

Each man reeled of his phone number to the other, goofy smiles on their faces once they were done.

"Uh, I've really got to get to work," Steve said, face falling slightly so he looked something like a wounded puppy. Bucky's heart swelled.

"I'll text you, Steve," Bucky promised, and the blond nodded.

"Or I'll text you."

Bucky raised an eyebrow, wanting to comment on the corny line, but sure that his dry humour would be a bit much for the first meeting. So, instead he laughed again and finally allowed Steve to turn away and start walking to work, prepared himself to trek ten minutes up-hill and endure being yelled at by Pierce for a good half and hour for being so late.

However, he thought, it was worth it.


End file.
